Tempting
by MadDoll
Summary: It was March 15, 1913 when he first saw her. He almost missed it too — a swish of chocolate hair and the slight clink of metal hitting oak wood. Whenever he let himself think about it years later, he sometimes wished he did. What his eternal life would've been if she'd never existed in it. But curiosity was always a bitch.


It was March 15, 1913 when he first saw her.

He almost missed it too — a swish of chocolate hair and the slight clink of metal hitting oak wood.

Whenever he let himself think about it years later, he sometimes wished he did. What his eternal life would've been if she'd never existed in it.

But curiosity was always a bitch.

"Excuse me, ma'am." Her deep blue skirt continued to shuffle past the group of the drunken men she served. He rolled his eyes, setting his scotch down on the wooden table with a clunk, before bending down to pick up the silver, oval amulet glinting on the sticky bar floor. "Ma'm!"

Still no response.

He still didn't know what made him follow her the way he did that first night - passing by hot, alcohol-ridden breaths, and roars of laughter to get to the petite woman, long pony-tail dancing back and forth amongst the rowdy crowd. "Ma'm?" he tapped her shoulder.

She swiveled around, the electric blue drinks on her tray dangerously swaying with the violence of her action. "I told you Matt, I've had enough! And-" the words died on her lips at the same rate his did.

Now, Damon Salvatore was a lot of things: murderer, sociopath, manic blood-drinker, but one thing he never was, was speechless. But here he was, mouth agape with the ghost of a non-existent heart pitter-pattering out of his chest. This moment should be written unto the history books.

His mouth watered at the pink blush creeping up her cheeks, imagining the way she would taste underneath her tight olive skin. She was exquisite. Thick eyelashes framing almond-shaped eyes fluttered in surprise.

And in that second, he knew.

She would be his.

"Whoa, there," he gave her a sinful grin. "I was just meaning to give this back." He dangled the necklace in front of her.

"Oh, uhm. Thank you," she shook her head, stuffing it into her stained, black apron. "Forgive me. I thought you were someone else." Her nose wrinkled as she managed a nervous smile. "Elena Gilbert," she held out her hand.

A Gilbert. His curiosity peaked. "Gilbert as in Jonathan?" he asked. "Now what's a founding member of Mystic Falls doing, working? At a place like this nonetheless?"

To his surprise she looked positively offended. "Are you asking because I'm a founding member, or because I'm a founding member who happens to be a woman? Uncle Jeremy never gets questioned like this…" She finished with a pout which just ignited his desire to capture her lips. Not Yet. He drew a little closer, just enough to get the scent of coffee grounds and old Paperbacks against her skin.

"I meant no offense," he held his hands in surrender, amusement coloring his eyes. "It's just I don't normally see faces like yours at places like these."

"Oh…w-well I have no shame in doing things for myself, thank you very much." He fought a smile at her flustered movements, almost feeling a bit shameful at her inevitable death at his hands. Almost. He'd never met a woman who spoke as such. And for a split second he contemplated simply compelling her to forget this moment, to find another, less exquisite soul to feed on. But Sage's words echoed in his mind _"A woman isn't just for food, she's for pleasure."_ And the intense curiosity of how pleasurable this woman can be, won out over whatever measly moral conscience existed within a killer.

"As you shouldn't," he replied resolutely. "But would it bother you very much if I did some things for you? A drink, maybe?"

He watched her walls waver, turning the question around in her mind. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm working." She finally declared. "Thanks for the necklace, though. And it was nice to meet you, Mr…?"

"Salvatore." At this her eyes softened. "Damon Salvatore."

"You wouldn't happen to be related to Zachariah Salvatore, would you?"

"My….uncle," he replied begrudgingly, using the word Stefan used for the bastard. "It's actually why I'm here."

"Oh. I'm sorry for your loss," she said, her eyes looking past him. "I-I know something about loss myself."

"Care to talk about it?" What was he doing? Offering to talk to his victim? He could easily make her more agreeable…

No. It was more exciting this way, he finally rationalized. Watching one's prey believe they were in control gave him pleasure - yes that's it. It was all about the chase.

The walls behind her eyes wavered once more, this time settling on a different conclusion it seems. "I get off late. But if you're willing to wait Mr. Salvatore, I'll be out around eleven. You can walk me home." If he wasn't a vampire he would've missed the devious smirk she threw at him before slipping past. He chuckled, feeling a tad more excited than he really should. It was probably the blood lust talking.

He couldn't wait to taste her.

* * *

Author's Note:

Gotta admit, I haven't watched TVD since season 4(?) so I have no idea what's going on. But I found this old story in my folders that I wrote awhile back so thought I'd share.


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